by Sigmund Brouwer

“Sire, I demand that this peasant lose his hand.”

Thomas frowned at the fat man in the flowing robes standing before him.

“We have established the boy owes you little more than the price of a live cow,” the king said. “And you want his hand chopped from his arm?”

“Perhaps time in the dungeon as well,” said the fat man, Cuthbert of Lockton, nodding vigorously. “He has owed me this for nigh unto six months for what his father borrowed before his death. It will set an example to all others of his kind. For I am owed by many.”

The boy stood thin and trembling.

“M’lord,” he pleaded, “without a hand, how might I work?”

Thomas stood from the large ornate throne. Here in the royal chamber, he held court and listened to the complaints of his subjects. Today’s matter bothered him greatly. It seemed too harsh that the law decreed a mere child might lose his hand for an unpaid debt.

Thomas moved to the side of the room, where his sheriff, Robert of Uleran, was watching the proceedings.

“Robert,” Thomas asked quietly, “shall the royal treasury pay this peasant’s debt?”

Robert was a man whose word Thomas respected. Solid and tough, his scarred and broken face testified to his livelihood as a knight.

“M’lord,” Robert replied with equal softness, “To be fair, then, the treasury must pay the debts of everyone in the land.”

“That we cannot afford,” Thomas said. He turned to Cuthbert and raised his voice. “Can we not appeal to your Christian charity to find a better answer?”

“Christian? Bah!” Cuthbert’s eyes flashed greed. “I did not rise to wealth by believing tales told by priests.”

Thomas raised a questioning eyebrow. His eyes, now as cold and gray as the North Sea, added strength to his appearance. His square shoulders, high, intelligent forehead and straight noble nose made Thomas an imposing figure when he decided—as now—to withhold his gentle smile.

“Tales?” Thomas questioned.

“Tales,” Cuthbert snorted. “Who would believe one might turn a few loaves of bread into enough to feed thousands?”

“You do not believe in miracles?” Thomas asked.

“Is there a royal law which says I must?” Cuthbert smirked. “When I believe in miracles, I will exercise Christian charity. Until then, punish this peasant and all others I bring before you.”

“Return in a week for my decision,” Thomas said.

“Certainly, M’lord.” Cuthbert’s tone was mocking. “Do not decide against the rich and powerful. A lord new to Magnus should not face rebellion from within.”

Looking for Miracles

Thomas made it his custom to greet each dawn from the eastern ramparts of the castle walls.

At that hour, the wind had yet to rise on the moors. Often mist would hover over the lake that surrounded Magnus. Behind Thomas, the town would lay silent as he lost himself in thought and absorbed the beauty of the sun’s rays breaking over the land.

There, on the ramparts in the quiet of a new day, Thomas found great solace in prayer—opening his heart to the God he knew listened directly to each person who called upon His name.

Yet this morning Thomas found himself troubled. Cuthbert’s words had struck deep. Who would believe one might turn a few loaves of bread into enough to feed thousands?

Thomas felt stabs of doubt. It mattered greatly, yes, the fate of the peasant child against such a cruel, greedy taskmaster. But did it not matter more to have an answer to Cuthbert’s mocking disbelief?

Thomas bowed his head and prayed for strength. When he opened his eyes, he surveyed the faraway fields, now gold in the rising sunlight. He smiled-an answer had been provided.

Daring Decision

Thomas called for the doors to the royal chamber to be opened. The huge fire at the side of the hall crackled and hissed as fat dripped down from the pig roasting on a spit. Servants and maids scurried in all directions.

Men armed with swords and large wolfhounds, women in fine dresses and peasants in rags filled the hall. Some came to see Thomas. Others came merely for the liveliness of the hall, and many were drawn by curiosity over the young ruler’s decision about the peasant.

Thomas strode calmly into their midst, hushing the hall into immediate silence.

“I call upon Cuthbert of Lockton,” he boomed.

The fat man stood, a sneer on his face.

“Did you not say that when you believe in miracles, you will exercise Christian charity?” Thomas asked.

“You have my word, M’lord.” Cuthbert’s sneer became a grin.

“And is a miracle that which cannot be explained?” Thomas lifted a loaf of coarse bread he held in his right hand. “A miracle that once turned a few loaves of bread into enough to feed thousands?”

Cuthbert shrugged.

“This is what I propose,” Thomas said. “If your eyes behold that miracle again, you release all peasants from their debts against you. If you do not see that miracle, the royal treasury pays you double their debts.”

The silence of the hall broke into excited babble.

Robert of Uleran rushed to Thomas.

“M’lord,” he said with urgent concern. “You cannot make a fool of yourself. Not as a lord so new to Magnus. Not when the people begin to trust your wisdom.”

Thomas had no chance to reply, for Cuthbert shouted above the noise. “I accept your proposal!”

The crowd grew silent, as all looked to Thomas. He merely nodded.

“All who care to see, follow me,” he said striding out of the hall.

Kernel of Faith

The people streamed after Thomas, forming a massed line that marched through the village streets to the castle walls, out through the drawbridge and away from the island along the narrow strip of land that connected Magnus to shore.

When Thomas stopped on a small rise of land that overlooked the valley lake, Cuthbert was wheezing from the walk.

Thomas lifted the loaf of bread. Again the crowd grew silent.

“From this loaf of bread,” Thomas said, “I shall pluck unground kernels of wheat, which I will plant in the soil at my feet. Stalks of wheat shall rise. And from this wheat, again I will plant. And perhaps again, until there is enough to feed thousands.”

Thomas tore the bread apart, found kernels of wheat, and carefully planted them in the soil. He stepped back. Sunlight streamed upon the ground.

Cuthbert stared at the spot, as did all who stood around. Five minutes passed. Then 10.

“I see no miracle,” Cuthbert finally said.

“Wait,” Thomas said.

“How long?”

“How long does it take for wheat to grow?”

“That is no miracle!”

“No?” Thomas asked. “Explain then how one tiny seed dies, yet becomes one hundred. Explain how the rains fall. How the seasons turn. How sunlight strengthens and ripens the wheat.”

Cuthbert paused. “I cannot,” he said in sullen tones.

“Did we not agree a miracle is that which cannot be explained?” Thomas spoke to all the people. “Because we see miracles daily, too often we forget they are miracles. A child is born, and day by day becomes the image of his father and mother. A creature as insignificant as a spider is constructed so perfectly that it moves with grace on legs lighter than thread. A hawk soars and dives where no man predicts.”

Thomas paused. “And this miracle, that one kernel becomes enough to feed thousands, is it less a miracle because it happens over the seasons?”

Murmurs of approval greeted his question.

“It is no less a miracle!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

Thomas saw Robert of Uleran begin to smile.

Thomas turned to Cuthbert. “You have a choice. Release your peasants from their debts now, and go home a free man. Or remain here, guarded, until the wheat has grown and your eyes behold the miracle of God’s providence. What say you to that?”

Cuthbert bowed his head, and when he raised it, a sad smile had replaced the sneer. “I say I go home a free man. . . .”

Cheers from the crowd nearly drowned out the rest of his words, “. . . and that Magnus could have no better ruler.”

	Q: Why did the dog lay on its back with its feet sticking in the air? A: It was trying to trip birds. Amy S., 11, Illinois Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe